


Hot Like Mexico

by coffeebuddha



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Clubbing, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Skirts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a person can be in your life for years before you ever realize that you don't really know that much about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Like Mexico

The pulsing bass eggs on a headache that Derek hadn't noticed before he'd walked into the stifling club, and the press of hot, sweaty bodies staggering up against him as he threads across the dance floor to the bar makes his skin itch and his fingers twitch. He suddenly feels old, so much older than he did even just a week or an hour ago. A girl whose nose and hair are as fake as the id she must have used to get in here is giving him flirty, come hither looks from across the floor, but Derek ignores her and pushes through the crush at the very edge of the crowd. He stumbles and almost immediately there's a hand at his elbow, helping to keep him up and steady.

The man holding on to him flashes what Derek can only describe as a smoldering smile. He's older than most of the crowd-he's dressed in an obviously expensive tailored button down and slacks instead of the leather and mesh that seems to be in favor and there's a touch of gray at his temples that manages to make him look 'experienced' instead of 'old'. His lips form soundless words that are completely drowned out by the music, and Derek smiles apologetically and gives a minute shake of his head as he pulls away, backing up against the bar. The smile cools into something more friendly and the man shrugs good naturedly before moving on to someone else.

There are no bar stools, so Derek slumps against the sticky counter, careful to avoid the worst of the puddles, and rubs wearily at his eyes while he waits for the bartender to stop flirting with a man wearing a corset and thigh high boots and come take his order. In a surprising twist, the bartender-a pretty, almost androgynous looking young man-is embarrassed and apologetic when he finally notices him. He sneaks a look around to make sure his boss isn't watching, then waves away Derek's attempt to pay. When Derek compliments his pixie wings and leaves a generous tip on the bar, he flushes and smiles so that he looks impossibly young and tells Derek to grab him if he needs anything else.

The condensation on his glass is cold and slick against his palm, a stark contrast to the humid heat that's making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his torso. Derek moves to a dark corner of the room near the glowing 'EXIT' sign and takes a drink. He has to force himself to sip instead of gulp, because once the liquid hits his tongue, he's suddenly aware of how desperately thirsty he is. The sharp, burning alcohol slides easily down his throat and Derek suddenly wishes he'd asked for water. Garcia would have laughed at him for that, but he feels he could drink a thousand glasses and not be satisfied. His tongue's like sandpaper and the insides of his cheeks stick to his teeth. If he were to smile, he's certain that his lips would crack and split painfully.

He sucks an ice cube between his lips and rolls it over his tongue, swallowing greedily as it melts. His body heat is already warming his fancy frosted glass, but it's cool and refreshing when he presses it against his forehead. Even the wall against his back feels like it's burning through the thin cotton of his shirt, although the vibrations from the bass that shake it help to ease some of the tension in his shoulders.

His eyelids are half lidded-heavy with fatigue from the heat and the alcohol and a million other things that he came here to forget-nearly ready to fall shut completely, when a tall, lithe figure catches his attention. It's the long fingers being pushed through still surprisingly short hair that makes him take notice. It's a gesture he sees almost every day, as much a part of his personal world as the man performing the action. Derek's grip loosens in his surprise-not much, but enough that the slick glass almost slides out of his fingers before he recovers both it and his senses.

Spencer's on the dance floor, barely more than fifteen feet away from Derek, but he gives no indication that he's seen him yet. His dancing, if it can be called that, is almost completely graceless, little more than absent, jerky shifts from side to side. Derek makes the mistake of taking another sip as he rakes his eyes over his friend and coworker and nearly ends up choking. The strobe lights and fog machine make his slim figure fuzzy and indistinct, but not so much that Derek doesn't notice the black, pleated skirt swinging from his narrow hips.

Unlike the bartender, there's nothing remotely feminine about Spencer. His skin shimmers with a faint sheen of sweat, but he isn't dusted with glitter. His legs are long and hairless, but Derek can just make out the scar from when he was shot and, when Spencer moves, he can see his wiry muscles shifting beneath his smooth skin. His eyes are closed, his long lashes gently resting on the bruised, delicate skin under his eyes, but he hasn't smudged on eyeliner or mascara. His lips, which are just barely parted, are full and pouty, but unpainted. Heavy, chunky boots are on his feet, stopping halfway up his calves. They look practical and scuffed, and Derek wonders if the wear he can see on them comes from clubbing or something else. How many nights would Spencer have to come to a place like this before his boots started to look that broken in?

His plain black t-shirt is tight, as tight as anything Derek would normally wear, and it clings to the hard, flat planes of his body. When he twists or lifts his arms, it rides up, exposing the damp, pale skin of his back or stomach or sides. Derek wants to reach out and tug it back down, shield him from the eyes, male and female, that he can see are watching him, but he stays where he is. He tells himself that he's different from the other people who are staring, and he is staring, because he's Spencer's friend, because he knows him. But how well does he really know him if after all this time he didn't know about this part of him? Had never even suspected?

Derek's mouth is dry again, but his glass is empty. The last time he looked down it was half full and he doesn't remember draining it, but he must have. He shifts, feels his clothes drag across his suddenly sensitive skin, every nerve ending set on fire by the soft fibers. What does Spencer feel like in his clothes? Do they show the real him, a person who must be hidden away for fear of ridicule and rejection except for late at night in dark, anonymous clubs? Is it a costume, a way of forgetting who he is and what he does? Or is it simpler than that? Maybe it just makes him feel sexy and alive and desirable. Derek's breath comes in hard, harsh pants as if he's been running. It's the heat, he tells himself. The oppressive, wet heat is strangling him, sucking more precious moisture out of his body with each second that ticks by.

The urge to reach out and touch surges up inside of him. It's as insistent and demanding as his thirst. His feet move almost without his consent, first one halting step, then another. He licks his lips, his dry tongue doing nothing to help wet his equally dry lips. This isn't real. There's no way that this writhing, sexual, beguiling creature is the same awkward young man he's spent the better part of the past decade working beside. He needs to confirm it, _make_ it real or prove it false. His hand is half lifted, hovering in the space between them, when Spencer turns and finally sees him watching.

* * *

The light bulb in Spencer's kitchen flickers, but doesn't die. Not yet. Funny that he keeps forgetting to buy new bulbs when he can never seem to forget anything else. He keeps his eyes down, watching his hands prepare two cups of coffee. He doesn't need to look, could go through the steps blindfolded, but he tells himself that by thinking about how he needs to add light bulbs and maybe toothpaste to his shopping list and focusing on measuring out the right amount of cream and sugar, he can clear his mind and order his thoughts. It doesn't work. When he turns around, Derek's still sitting at his kitchen table, restlessly rearranging his fingers around an empty glass of water.

He doesn't fit. Spencer pauses midstep at that thought and the hot coffee nearly sloshes out to scald his fingers because of the falter, but it's true enough. Derek doesn't belong here in his small, chaotic kitchen. He feels too big, filling the space in a way that shouldn't be physically possible. The chair and table are miniaturized by his broad frame, the refrigerator something from a child's doll house. Strange how easy it is to believe that Derek's taller, bigger than he is when he's been looking down at him for years.

Derek's all strong, sharp lines and he makes the entire room look fuzzy and unreal. Shabby. Spencer feels a sudden pang of shame in his gut, followed swiftly by a flare of anger. How dare Derek make him feel ashamed of anything? He's always liked his kitchen before. It's cozy, eclectic, welcoming. Maybe there's nothing modern about it, maybe the stove doesn't work right and the oven's such a lost cause that he uses it to store his extra linens, but it's _his_ and he likes it, so what the hell does it matter what Derek Morgan or anyone else thinks?Spencer purses his lips and slams a mug down in front of Derek, the force making him jump a little with surprise, his hands falling away from the water glass to press flat against the scarred formica table top. This time some of the coffee does spill over the edge, but Spencer doesn't jump to get a towel and mop it up. Instead, he pushes his-awesome! funky! vintage!-napkin holder over toward Derek so that he can clean it up himself.

Spencer sits, carefully smoothing the fabric of the skirt over his thighs as he does. When they'd first walked in the door, Derek had turned to him with his lips parted as if he wanted to ask a question and his eyes had flickered down over Spencer's outfit, but he'd snapped his mouth shut before the words could slip out. There it was, the small window when he could speed into his bedroom and change, 'make himself comfortable'. Make Derek more comfortable. Spencer had pursed his lips into a thin line and led the way into the kitchen, aware that Derek's eyes were tracking every move he made. Heat rushes through him now at the thought, coloring his face and neck, and he stares hard at the steam curling up from his coffee. Tries to push back the blush like he's trying to push back the embarrassment.

It shouldn't matter what Derek thinks of him, but it does. It matters because of the way that the soft, squishy place in his chest, which had thrilled at every happy ending and clutched at every bitter tragedy that his mother had ever read him, jumps and flips and tightens when Derek makes an noise of approval or gives him a look of disbelief. One word, just one word, is all it would take to make that searing hot mortification creep up from his stomach to claw at the back of his throat. His fingers tighten around the mug until they're deathly white. He clears his throat, takes a sip, shifts so that the hard wooden edge of his chair digs uncomfortably into the back of his bare thighs and proves that this isn't a dream.

Every shuffle and breath seems to echo in the silence. Derek squirms and fidgets like a child who's been caught doing something wrong, but Spencer is too busy taking deep, steadying breaths in an attempt to stop his head from spinning to do anything more than occasionally twitch his foot. Finally, after several tense minutes of carefully not looking at each other, Derek lets out an explosively loud sigh and attempts a rueful smile. It's unconvincing, but Spencer still feels some of the tension go out of his neck and shoulders at the sight. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

"So, I never would have guessed that that's the sort of thing you're into," Derek says haltingly. He pauses, his dark eyes going wide and flicking down in the direction of Spencer's skirt, hidden by the table. Spencer blinks slowly at Derek, his knee bouncing nervously under the table. He's still wearing his boots and there's a dull thud each time the heel hits the floor. Derek swallows loudly and rushes on. "Clubbing, I mean. You've never seemed to show much interest in clubbing before."

Scratch that, there's no way this isn't going to be painful. Spencer shrugs a shoulder, half in response to Derek's statement, half to help ease some of the tightness there. He taps a fingernail against the cooling ceramic mug, stops after a moment when it starts to grate on his nerves. "I didn't use to," he finally says. "But after...After Hankel, I started."

This time it's Spencer who pauses, only vaguely aware of the unwelcome sympathetic grimace that momentarily flashes across Derek's face. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites down on it hard. For a second, he's back in the club, surrounded by uncaring strangers, his head reeling and his limbs heavy and loose, lost in a chemical nirvana, then he blinks and he's back in his dim kitchen with Derek. He tastes the sharp metallic tang of blood on his tongue and he takes another sip of coffee and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth before continuing.

"It was something to help me forget for a little while. It would have been counterproductive to go out with the team when they were part of what I didn't want to think about."

Derek nods slowly and slowly traces the rim of his mug with the tips of his fingers. "And the clothes," he asks. "What about those?"

"Club wear," Spencer manages to force out. His voice sounds choked even to his own ears and his cheeks burn. "There's no deeper meaning to them, Derek. It's just club wear. They help me blend in."

He lets the words hang in the air between them, not needing to look to know that there's disbelief on Derek's face. They're profilers. They've been trained to see the deeper meaning in everything. For a long, tense moment, he's afraid that Derek will press the subject, even prays to a God he doesn't believe in that he'll let it drop, then Derek slurps at his coffee and his eyes flick from Spencer's face to the table and back again and the moment passes.

Spencer ducks his head, not wanting to meet the gaze that he can feel burning into his skin. It feels like a hand is squeezing his chest, tighter and tighter until he's struggling to breathe. His hand shakes when he pushes his hair out of his eyes and his leg is jumping faster and faster under the table. The room's quiet again, or as quiet as it can be with the noisy hums of his ancient fridge and the even older air conditioner propped up in his window and the sharp, shallow gasps he makes as he forces air past the fist that's closed around his lungs. In his peripheral vision, he can see Derek reaching out, his palm down and his fingers spread, just like he'd been posed at the club when Spencer saw him. A slight tremor goes through his hand and he balls it into a fist like that will stop it.

"Spencer," he says. His voice is low and rough, breathless like he's having as much trouble breathing as Spencer is. Spencer closes his eyes and sees Derek's face the way it had been when he'd turned around. All shadows and angles from the flashing lights, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and damp. Even with his dark skin, Spencer could have sworn he'd seen a flush on his cheeks. He'd looked shell shocked and feverish. His wrist had been clammy under Spencer's palm when he'd taken it as he stepped in closer and raised his voice over the music to say "Not here." Although that might have been sweat, since his skin had only grown slicker with every second that Spencer touched it while he led the way out of the crowded room.

Spencer's tongue flicks out to wet his lips and Derek inhales sharply. Slowly, Spencer lifts his eyes until he's looking at Derek through the thick fringe of his eyelashes. Derek's fingers convulse against the table like he's fighting the urge to reach out again. Spencer exhales with a faint, barely audible whimper and Derek's fingers twitch and his eyes go even darker.

"Spencer," he says again. Spencer leans forward, until the edge of the table is pressing hard against his stomach. Derek glances down again, then back up again and his breath is definitely faster, his cheeks and ears darker. "I don't think you could ever blend in. You're meant to stand out."

A rational voice in his head is screaming at him, telling him to stop, think about what he's doing, but Spencer tunes it out as he slides his hand across the laminate table top until the very tips of his fingers brush against Derek's. He can feel the heat radiating out from the places where their skin is touching, spreading up and out from his fingertips to his arm, chest, whole body. Spencer shudders at the force of it, his breath hitching when Derek turns his hand so that it's palm up and slides his fingers up underneath Spencer's, his nails skimming the sensitive skin at the inside of his wrist. His pulse races under Derek's touch and Spencer shivers when Derek curls his fingers around his wrist and tugs lightly.

Derek's rising up, halfway out of his chair, when there's a sudden loud crash. They both jump, their hands falling apart, and Derek looks away, his face blank. Spencer sucks in a shaky breath and pulls his hand back to his side of the table. There's another crash, this one quieter and not nearly as jarring, and Derek turns to look at Spencer, one eyebrow arched in a silent question.

"My neighbors," Spencer says, his lips curling in a humorless smile. "I think they're doing some remodeling work in their kitchen and they always forget how thin the walls are."

"Oh." Derek swallows again, looking much more flustered than he had moments ago. There's another long pause, then he shakes his head sharply and frowns. "It's late," He says, his voice soft but firm. "I should really be going."

Spencer jerks at that, his mouth falling open to protest, but he chokes back the words before any of them can slip out. Instead he nods slowly, quietly says, "Okay."

Derek pauses by the chair where Spencer's still sitting. His hand hovers over Spencer's shoulder for half a second before he snatches it back, shoving it into his pocket. "I won't tell anyone at work. I wouldn't do that to you."

Spencer suddenly feels cold everywhere he had been burning before. He presses the palms of his hands against his thighs, half on soft fabric and half on smooth skin, and closes his eyes. He'd forgotten. One touch and he'd forgotten the entire reason that Derek had followed him from the club to his apartment. His lips twitch and he can feel an almost hysterical laugh rising in his throat. Like the words he'd stopped before, he suppresses it. He's good at suppressing things. He glances up at Derek and nods again. "I know."

Spencer's still sitting at the table, staring into his half full mug of room temperature coffee when he hears the front door click shut behind Derek.

* * *

It's barely an hour since the club opened, but the room's already pulsing with music and scantily clad bodies. Derek hadn't planned on coming back to the club. It was unintentional, honestly. He'd been aimlessly riding his motorcycle in circles downtown, each loop bringing him closer and closer to this spot. When he'd reached the street it was on, there had been an empty parking spot opening up just across the street from the entrance. It was almost like some sort of sign, Derek reflects as he leans back against the bar.

The same young man-Tommy-is behind it as the night before, although he's traded the pixie wings out for vibrant pink streaks in his blond hair. After watching Derek nervously fidgeting with his glass for a couple of hours, he starts to come over and make small talk between mixing drinks. Derek's end of the conversation is stilted and detached, but by the small hours of the morning he knows that Tommy's bartending to put himself through college, is an only child, loves dogs, and is a Gemini. Even when he's talking, Derek spends the entire night scanning the constantly churning, changing crowd, but Spencer never shows.

Sunday night, he orders take out and turns on a game, determined to stay home where things are sane and quiet and make sense. Clooney's slumped on top of his feet, snoring away. It all makes for a care free, comfortable picture, but after only about twenty minutes, he's up again, pacing from room to room, Clooney trotting along at his heels. He's irritable, on edge. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Spencer the way he was at the club-blithe, untroubled. Sensual. Desirable.

Derek idly wonders if this is what it would be like to have Spencer's photographic memory. Each movement, every nuance of his expression, all of his little inflections and intonations are irreversibly seared into his memory, consuming his every waking moment until he thinks he's about to go out of his mind. He snarls his way through the house, his nervous energy building until he snaps angrily at Clooney for sticking his cold nose against the back of his hand. Derek immediately feels guilty for yelling at the dog, especially since he's really not done anything wrong, but he can't make himself stay still. After scratching Clooney behind the ears and tossing him a few treats, he snatches up his helmet and starts driving. Derek doesn't pay attention to the course he takes. It doesn't seem to matter. All that matters is that the end result is the same. He's back at the club, where Tommy's only too glad to chatter mostly to himself while Derek waits for someone who isn't coming.

The next morning at work, Spencer looks like hell. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than usual, his face is pale and drawn, and he's rumpled all over like he got caught up in a whirlwind on his way in. By lunch time, his lips are red and swollen from the way he's been nervously biting them together. Despite Derek's promise and Spencer's assurance that he trusts him, he flinches guiltily every time Derek so much as looks at him. It would almost be amusing if it wasn't so damned annoying. Still, Derek bites his tongue and acts like everything is normal. 

He doesn't even pretend to bother with pretenses that night. He's back at the bar with Tommy sliding a glass across the sticky surface and into his hand hours before the rush is due to hit. The fourth night, he finally works up the nerve to ask the young man what he knows about Spencer. Tommy arches an inquisitive eyebrow at him as he deftly mixes together a dayglow green cocktail, but tells him. Spencer isn't a regular, but he comes in often enough that he's memorable. He's usually quiet, always alone, seldom drinks. Sometimes he leaves with someone, but it's rare. Tommy looks thoughtful, tapping a bottle opener against his lower lip. "He's otherworldly," he finally says. "Aside from his height and killer cheekbones, that's what stands out about him to me. He doesn't quite fit, but in a good way."

He flashes a wide, white smile at Derek, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. "But you should know that, right? You went home with him last time he was here." When Derek only stares stonily at him instead of answering, Tommy leans across the bar to pat him on the shoulder and fixes him another drink on the house. "Take my professional advice as a bartender, man. Guys like him aren't for mere mortals like us. They may occasionally grace us with their presence, but in the end they have to go back to their own world. You can't catch someone like that."

Derek takes a sip of his drink, relishing the bitter burn as it slides over his tongue and down his throat to settle warmly in his stomach. "When did I ever say I was looking to catch him?"

He settles into a routine more easily than he would have thought. The lack of sleep is going to start affecting him soon-he's not so young anymore that he can stay out every night without having to deal with _some_ consequences-but even that isn't enough to stop the near compulsion that drives him to lurk in the dim smoky room every night that he's not out of town with a case.

Yes, he sees Spencer every day at work, but it's not the same. Things are more relaxed between them now, but there are still the odd tense moments when Spencer catches him watching just a little intently. Derek tries to stop himself, but then something will flicker across Spencer's face or he'll move in a way that has Derek flashing back to that night and he finds himself hypnotized. Without those tiny glimpses it'd be so incredibly easy to write it all off as some crazily vivid dream, but each reminder taunts him and sends him back to the club to wait.

On the nights that he's not behind the bar, Tommy's usually out at other clubs. Occasionally he'll tell Derek about seeing Spencer somewhere else. He's not tempted to go to those places to seek Spencer out. There's no guarantee that he'll be there on any of the random nights that Derek would show up, but he's convinced that if he just waits long enough, Spencer will come back. He's keeping a near vigil, and the pay off will be more than worth it. It has to be.

It's over a month after their original run in when Derek looks up from his conversation with Tommy to see Spencer drifting through the crowd. He's dressed nearly identically to the way he was the first night and Derek's throat goes dry from the sudden rush of heat that surges through him. Spencer notices him nearly immediately this time. Even from across the room, he can see the color that floods Spencer's cheeks. It stains his neck and his ears such a pretty, enticing shade of red that Derek wants to go to him and peal off that too tight t-shirt and see just how far that blush extends.

Spencer's eyes slide away from his and he falls in with the rest of the crowd, his lithe body slowly rocking from side to side. Derek's dimly aware that Tommy's still talking to him, but his words are lost in the growing roar of Derek's pulse pounding in his ears. His feet are moving without his permission, the impact of the soles of his shoes against the sticky concrete floor jarring dully up the backs of his calves. The lights are dim flashes in the corners of his eyes, only significant for the way that they gild Spencer's hair blue, pink, green, purple gold. Derek's chest is too tight and his head spins. It isn't until his lungs start to ache and his vision wavers that he realizes he's stopped breathing and he draws in a deep, uneven breath. The air is dry and smoky and rubs like sandpaper going down his throat.

He's circling the perimeter of the dance floor, his eyes trained on Spencer, whose occasional sideways glances scorch his skin. His head is thrown back, his wide eyes narrowed to slits. His full lips are just barely parted and Derek can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, too fast for just the small amount of dancing he's been doing. The long line of his neck is exposed and Derek imagines he can see the jump of his pulse under his jawline. A bead of sweat rolls down from his temple, leaving a faint trail over his cheek, jaw, neck until it hits the collar of his shirt.

Derek watches it fall and a sharp warmth spreads low in his gut when he thinks about following that line with his mouth, tasting the sweet tang of Spencer on his tongue. He hands fist against his thighs and he licks his lips as he imagines the whimpers and moans that he could draw from Spencer with his lips and teeth. What it would be like to have that trim, flushed body writhing against, under, above him. Derek swallows thickly around the hard lump in his throat and concentrates on watching. He won't move. He has some restraint left. He's just here to watch, observe. Only watch.

Derek licks his lips, tastes a hint of the sweat above his upper lip. He wants to pull Spencer from the dance floor and out the back door into the alley. His skirt taunts him, each swish emphasizing how easy it would be to push it up around Spencer's waist and take him, hot and hard against a dirty brick wall where any drunk could wander by and see. He shifts uncomfortably, his cock half hard just from watching and thinking. It's tempting to reach down and adjust himself-he doubts anyone here would care, even if they did see-but instead he closes his eyes and imagines Spencer doing it for him. Those long, elegant fingers closing around him, squeezing, stroking.

The room is oppressively hot. Stifling, really. Derek runs a finger under the neckband of his t-shirt, pulling it away from his sweat slicked skin, and openly stares at Spencer as a man approaches him, casually touching the small of his back. It's a possessive move, one that sends a clear message to those watching. Derek can feel his hackles raising at the gesture. It's a challenge that the other man doesn't even realize he's issued.

Spencer's forearm is firm and smooth and scalding under his sweating palm. It isn't until Spencer's head whips around, his doe eyes huge with surprise and lit with some emotion that Derek can't quite name, that he realizes he's crossed the room and is actually touching him. He's trapped between the two of them, and from the half amused look he gives Derek from under his eyelashes, he's not entirely opposed to it. Derek growls, the low throaty sound carrying under the heavy pulse of the music. The other man's eyes widen at the viciousness of his glare and he backs away without Derek having to say a word, his hands lifted placatingly in the air.

One tiny tug and Spencer falls into step behind him. He's moving blindly, pushing through the crowd when it doesn't part soon or easily enough. Spencer stays close to him, his front nearly pressed against Derek's back, his body heat saturating the sliver of air separating them. When Spencer nearly gets dragged back into the thick of the crowd by a mass of over enthusiastic dancers, the sudden lack of his warmth makes Derek shiver and he pulls harder than he meant to in his haste to get it back. A small grunt slips from between Spencer's lips, but he doesn't complain, instead pressing closer, even hooking the fingers of his free hand in one of Derek's belt loops. Derek's shirt rides up a little as he moves and Spencer's knuckles brush against his exposed side, his touch so hot that Derek is certain he's branded his skin.

Spencer hunches over so that his lips are close to Derek's ear and his voice is so quiet that he'd doubt he was even saying anything if he couldn't feel Spencer's warm, wet breath against the shell of his ear. He shakes his head, although he's not entirely certain whether he's trying to let Spencer know that he can't hear him or shake off the shivery feeling that's dancing up and down his spine. Maybe both, if he's honest. His fingers slide down Spencer's arm to his wrist and he squeezes, feeling the almost delicate bones there.

They manage to find an unoccupied corner under a narrow staircase that leads up to a private room, and Derek spins Spencer around in front of him, backing him up against the wall. His hands settle on Spencer's hips, the soft, slightly scratchy fabric shifting easily under his palms. Spencer doesn't resist, instead sliding down the wall just enough so that he's looking Derek straight in the eye. Derek presses in closer between his legs, tracing the hard jut of Spencer's hipbones with his thumbs. "What was that?"

Spencer's head falls back against the wall and he squirms under Derek's hands, his breathing already hard and harsh. "This is a bad idea," he repeats, even as he lifts his hips so that Derek can palm the curve of his ass. "A really, _really_ bad idea. Dangerous, even."

Derek's lips curve into a smile against Spencer's neck at how breathless the other man sounds. His tongue darts out, flicking against his racing pulse, and his fingers curl tighter against Spencer when he makes a small choked noise. "Dangerous?" He slides his hands down Spencer's thighs to the hem of his skirt, then slowly slips them up underneath, drawing another strangled moan from Spencer. Derek runs his fingertips along the edges of Spencer's underwear, teasing at the soft skin underneath. Spencer licks his lips and Derek eagerly watches his pink tongue as it darts out. "How is this dangerous?"

"You're dangerous," Spencer pants. His hands had been clutching at the exposed brick wall behind him, but now he lifts them to grip Derek's shoulders. Derek lightly caresses Spencer's rapidly hardening bulge through his thin underwear, grinning when Spencer's short nails dig painfully into his shoulders. He rests his forehead against Spencer's, breathing in his harsh pants. Spencer's skin feels feverish against his, slippery with sweat, and he trembles under Derek's touch. "You'll destroy me," he forces out, his lips so close to Derek's that he can feel them moving.

Derek huffs a short laugh. His eyes feel gritty from smoke and lack of sleep, and the room feels like it's spinning around him, Spencer's body the only thing anchoring him in place. His eyelids fall closed and he inhales deeply, breathing in Spencer. He clasps him tighter, afraid of what will happen to him if he lets Spencer go. He's afraid, terrified that this is all just a mad, crazy dream that will evaporate in the morning like dew. Every fiber of his being is focused on Spencer, tuned in to him, drawn to him like a magnet. His breath comes out in a long, shuddering sigh and he forces himself to open his eyes and meet Spencer's. There's fear there, but something else. Longing, passion, and a near desperation.

There's something about this man that drives him to the breaking point, consuming him. Spencer has a hold on his soul just as surely as he has a hold on his body, and Derek can't decide if that thrills him or terrifies him. Spencer's lit a fire inside of him and it's burning so hot and white that he's half surprised that there aren't sparks shooting from his fingertips, spreading the flames to everything he touches. "You too," he finally says, his voice rough with need. "But it'll be a fucking amazing way to go."

* * *

This isn't what Spencer was expecting. He doesn't know what he thought was going to happen, but he never expected to be pinned against a wall by Derek's broad, hard body in the back of a dirty club. Honestly, he hadn't even thought he would come back to this place again. Before, it had been a place to escape. It was almost serene in its chaos. But now? Now it's tied to probably the most mortifying experience of his life. It wasn't until a few days ago when he'd run into a man he'd vaguely recognized as a bartender, who had mentioned 'the smoking hot black guy' who had been lurking by the bar and asking about him, that he even considered that Derek might have wanted to do anything other than forget what had happened between them.

Walking into the club, his stomach had turned with nervous shame, only intensifying when he'd looked up to see Derek staring straight at him. It's hard to believe that Derek wasn't reviled by him, no matter what Spencer thought might have passed between them at his apartment, but Derek didn't even trying to mask the naked desire on his face. He's across the room, but Spencer could still feel the weight of his gaze and his pulse jumped wildly at the thought of all that intensity focused solely on him.

Now, the wall at his back and Derek's hands are the only things keeping him from toppling over-his knees have been threatening to give out ever since Derek first touched him. Derek's fingertips slip up under his tight shirt and press against the dip at the small of his back and his almost teasing caresses make Spencer moan and drop his head back so that Derek can bite a delicious, shivery line down the length of his neck. The bricks are raw and coarse, snagging at strands of his hair and his clothing like a thousand tiny hands pulling at him, anchoring him to this spot. Derek's damp palm is hot on the bare skin of his thigh, rough with callouses-probably from the manual labor he does flipping houses, Spencer thinks absently-but almost unbearably gentle, as if he thinks Spencer will break apart from just his touch.

It's almost like he's someone else in this moment, which is strange and almost funny. All this time he's been running away from his coworkers in a usually futile attempt to feel exactly the way he does now with Derek's lips and hands making him senseless with wanting. This isn't like him, isn't _him._ Even during his darkest moments, he'd never been this reckless. It's wrong, so incredibly, amazingly wrong and he wants to push Derek away, pretend this is all some crazy delusion brought on by too little sleep and too much work. But even more than that, he wants to drag Derek back to his place and luxuriate under Derek's touch as he strips off his clothes, his lips and tongue tortuously caressing his skin as he slowly reveals it inch by inch.

His breath speeds up at the thought and Derek's grip on him seems to get tighter with each harsh pant. Spencer trembles and wonders if maybe Derek won't break his body as surely as he'll break the rest of him. For Spencer, it isn't even a question of if Derek will hurt him. It's simple profiling. Derek has too many trust and commitment issues to pursue a serious relationship, especially with someone he has genuine feelings for. His endless string of casual hookups keeps him emotionally safe. He's someone who doesn't blink at the thought of chasing down an unsub or a train, but Spencer is too much of a risk. From the moment Derek looked at him with some feeling stronger than friendship in his eyes, Spencer's internal stopwatch has been counting down the seconds until Derek rips his heart and soul out and tramples them under his feet.

He won't mean to, but knowing that's an empty comfort. Derek's a good man. He'll be kind and caring when the moment comes for him to avoid Spencer's eyes and awkwardly say that this won't effect their work relationship, that they're still friends. Spencer's not a naturally violent person, but thinking about Derek 'letting him down easy' makes him angrily rake his fingernails down Derek's back and lean in to bite his shoulder. The cotton of his t-shirt is slightly salty from his sweat and squeaks softly against Spencer's teeth. If it hurts, Derek doesn't seem to mind. Instead of acting upset, he growls again-a low, sexy sound that makes Spencer's skin tighten and tingle with anticipation-and slides his hands around under Spencer's skirt to palm his ass and pull him up off the wall, grinding against him with short, hard thrusts that make Spencer's breath come out in a whimper.

His hips jerk as he starts to move to Derek's rhythm, but then Derek's suddenly holding on to him again, taking control, keeping him pinned and still. Spencer whimpers with frustration and his back bows up off the wall as he tries to move and feel more of that delicious friction. He grabs Derek's arms for leverage and bites back a moan at the feel of his muscles moving under his hands as he holds Spencer in place. Spencer hooks his leg around Derek's and slides it up, trying to pull him closer. Derek chuckles and his hands tighten on Spencer, although he doesn't speed up his slow, deliberate pace. Spencer glares at him, earning another short, breathless laugh, and he bites Derek again, this time at the smooth juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. An involuntary groan rises in his throat at Derek's taste-a sharp mixture of salt and chemicals from his cologne-and he laves his tongue over the abused, captured flesh, wanting more. He feels Derek's breath catch under his lips and it's nearly as satisfying as pulling back to see the twin half crescent marks from his teeth imprinted in Derek's skin.

Derek's eyes are dark, his pupils blown so wide that there's only a tiny ring of brown circling them. It's dizzying, knowing that Derek wants him so much that he's capable of forgetting where they are and the consequences of getting caught like this, and in spite of the voice of reason screeching that he's making a mistake, Spencer takes Derek's wrists and insistently pulls his hands off his hips, side stepping out of his arms. Derek's brow furrows and he opens his mouth, ready to protest, but Spencer leans in and kisses him. Despite the stroking and groping, it's their first kiss, barely more than a soft, brief brushing of lips, but it freezes Derek in place and makes Spencer's heart jump more wildly than anything else they've done so far. Derek looks stunned and confused when Spencer pulls back, and he smiles, pleased to finally be the one in control. "Not here," he says, echoing his words from the other night. 

Derek visibly shakes himself and he glances around as if suddenly remembering that they're in a public place where anyone could stumble across them. He moves slowly, awkwardly, almost as if he's dragging his limbs through water, and he immediately reaches for Spencer, wrapping a strong, possessive arm around his waist, securing him against his side as they wind their way back through the crowd. Spencer's inner voice is still screaming, telling him this is possibly the worst choice he's ever made, but it's almost completely drowned out when he looks over to see Derek's slightly glazed expression and thinks 'I did that to him. Me. He wants _me_.'

Derek seems loath to let him go, his arm holding Spencer more unyieldingly every time the churning crowd tries to pluck him from his grasp. When they finally break free, bursting through the door into the crisp night air, the sudden cold shock makes Spencer shiver violently. In contrast, Derek's arm around his waist feels like a white hot band of steel, burning into his skin. Derek pulls him even closer and it's like being enveloped by living, breathing flame. 'It's like being held by the Human Torch," he thinks wildly, desperately trying not to think about whether it's the cold air or Derek's fingers drumming against his hipbone that have his nipples tightening, every shift and movement of his shirt against the sensitive skin shooting pleasure down his spine to pool in his stomach. He doesn't want to think about it, because the more he analyzes and dissects what's happening, the more likely it is that he'll start to wonder _why_ it'shappening, and that's a question he isn't convinced he wants the answer to.

Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, hugging his slim torso, and leans against Derek's side as they stumble away from the door and the bouncer who's openly watching them. They pass Derek's bike-it's so close to the entrance that he must have shown up just as the place was opening while the crowd was still slim-but Derek makes no move to let him go, instead steering them further down the street toward Spencer's car. Spencer fumbles for his key, which he had removed from his keyring and tucked into a little zippered side pocket on his skirt along with his id and a few folded bills, but before he can work the zipper open, Derek has him backed up against the car, trapping him again. The metal is freezing against his hot, sweaty skin, and his damp clothes soak up the chill so that he ends up pressing against Derek as much out of a desire for warmth as anything.

He should put a stop to this-they're even more exposed here than they were in the club-but then Derek's lips are on his and his leg is sliding between Spencer's thighs, enticingly pressing against the erection that Spencer has been trying to ignore. Spencer clutches the thin, worn fabric of Derek's t-shift, stretching and wrinkling it, before pressing his hands flat against his back, mapping the hard ridges of his shoulder blades, memorizing every tiny dip and crevice, mezmerized by the way Derek's muscles bunch and jump under his hands.

Derek's hands are warm against Spencer's cheeks as he cups his face, his fingers curling into the edges of his hair. His lips are surprisingly soft, gently caressing Spencer's. One of his hands slides around to palm the back of Spencer's head and he sighs against his mouth. He runs his tongue along Spencer's lower lip, then takes it between his teeth, biting down just hard enough that Spencer bows up off his car, bringing their hips flush together. The hard, heavy weight of Derek's cock against his thigh makes him moan and scramble to hook his fingers into his belt loops, pulling him even closer. Derek's lips curve against his and he kisses him again, harder this time. When Derek licks into his mouth, his tongue sinfully stroking against his own, Spencer moans. He wants to fall to his knees and take Derek in his mouth, his lips stretched around his hard length, and drive him insane. Or maybe have Derek bend him over the hood of the car and take him, hard and fast and rough.

The fantasies of what Derek will do to him and what he'll do to Derek flash through his mind's eye and he doesn't know how far he'd actually have let things go if someone hadn't chosen that moment to let out a loud cat call in their direction. Spencer snaps his head to the side, breaking off the kiss, and shoves Derek away with shaking hands. "Not here," he says again, feeling like a broken record. "Derek, please, not here."

Derek drops his forehead on Spencer's shoulder and braces his hands against the car's roof so that he doesn't crush him. "You're killing me here, pretty boy."

Spencer laughs hollowly as he ducks out of Derek's hold again. There's not nearly enough blood pumping to his brain, but there's enough that he's back to questioning this. Derek's watching him with those dark, dark eyes. This is his coworker, his friend, but he's never seen that look on his face before. Not directed at him. Spencer manages a shaky smile and nervously smooths his sweaty palms down his skirt. He's digging for his key again when he wonders if that's what this is all about. Is it really as easy as a skirt? Would they have danced around each other for the rest of their lives, professional and personal, if Derek hadn't stumbled onto Spencer's secret? Is this about him at all? Or did he just happen to luck into Derek's kink? Certainly he's never had trouble keeping his hands to himself before. Even when he'd called him pretty boy, it was always more teasing than flirty. Thinking back, Spencer can't remember a single instance where Derek's given any indication that he's even attracted to men. Although that doesn't necessarily mean anything. There's no reason to think that he isn't, even if he clearly prefers women.

Spencer is still half bent over, his key digging sharply into his soft palm, watching Derek through lowered lashes. Derek quirks an eyebrow and leans against the car. If it wasn't for his only slightly too fast breathing and the noticeable bulge in the front of his pants, he'd look casual and relaxed. More relaxed than someone picking up a coworker at a club should be. Spencer swallows thickly and slowly straightens up. Derek looks concerned for a moment and reaches out for him again, but Spencer smiles and it must look more convincing this time, because he doesn't say anything until they're both in the car. "You have no idea how much I've been thinking this," Derek says, his voice rougher than Spencer thinks he's ever heard it.

He drops a hand on Spencer's leg, tickling the back of his knee. Spencer glances at him out of the corner of his eye and presses down harder on the gas pedal, desperately trying to ignore the voice telling him that this is the stupidest thing he's ever done.

* * *

Derek pauses inside the doorway, a sudden lump in his throat. He glances around the cluttered room and his eyes snag on the rumple sheeted mattress that's lying directly on the floor. Spencer, who doesn't seem to notice his behavior, pulls away from his side and plops down on the mattress, his unruly hair falling forward to obscure his eyes as he bends over to unlace his boots. A chill seeps into Derek's clothing and skin where Spencer had been pressed against him as he watches Spencer's fingers on the laces, his gaze drifting up over the curve of his leather covered calves to his bare knees. His eyes slip up higher, following the long lines of his thighs. The soft plaid of his skirt rode up when he sat and Derek swallows at the amount of smooth, creamy skin that Spencer's inadvertently baring. His loosely fisted fingers twitch against his palms as he imagines inching the fabric up even higher to reveal his briefs, damp in the front from his arousal. Listening to the soft, high keen Spencer makes in his throat when he's suppressing a whimper as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband. All it would take is one good tug to strip them off. Or maybe leave them on while he strokes and sucks, using the friction from the fabric to drive Spencer mindless.

Spencer kicks off his boots and finally looks up, his brow furrowing a bit when he sees Derek hasn't moved. Derek's seized by a sudden unease when Spencer cocks his head to the side and frowns. Tingles dance through his arms and legs as his body prepares itself to flee. His breath is coming fast, faster than it does even after a workout, but Derek licks his lips and tries to lean casually against the door frame. Good God, what is he doing? This is _Spencer._ "So," he says, his voice nearly cracking from tension. He tries to ignore the way Spencer's eyebrows fly up at that and clears his throat before continuing. "This is your bedroom."

It's a stupid, obvious thing to say. He's bumbling like a virgin on prom night and even Spencer obviously knows that his behavior isn't exactly suave. It isn't supposed to be happening like this. He's supposed to be charming and seductive like he always has been in the past. In the past when it wasn't Spencer. Spencer, who's pushing himself up off the bed, suddenly more graceful and fluid with his feet bare than Derek's ever seen him.The man should give up shoes, Derek decides, since it's clear that footwear is what's been tripping him up all these years. In the time it takes him to decide that, Spencer's right in front of him. He reaches out to curl his fingers around Derek's with a small, secret smile and says, "Yes. 'Where painfully and with wonder/at having survived even/this far/we are learning to make fire.'"

A tiny part of Derek is surprised that Spencer isn't teasing him for his sudden lack of skill, but mostly he's focused on the tendril of heat that's curling in his stomach, slowly expanding to fill his entire body. He lifts a hand to Spencer's cheek. His skin is soft, but unlike the women Derek has touched this way, there's a hint of roughness against his skin from his stubble even though he must have shaved before leaving for the club. Derek sweeps his thumb across his cheekbone and down into the hollow of his cheek, fascinated by the change in texture. His breath hitches when Spencer leans into his touch and turns his head to kiss Derek's palm. His eyes stay locked with Derek's as he does it and the raw desire there has Derek moving forward again, eager to feel Spencer's body moving against his. "Damn, pretty boy," He groans. His arm slips so easily around Spencer's waist as if it belongs there. It's not a perfect fit, but that's easy enough to overlook when Spencer's so warm and willing against him. "Do you have any clue what you do to me?"

Spencer brushes feather light kisses down his neck and Derek shivers at the short burst of air across his skin when he lets out a small laugh. "I think I might," Spencer says as he slides his thigh between Derek's and rocks forward against his hardness. Derek groans and threads his fingers through Spencer's hair. The strands are almost coarse, much less silky than he'd thought they'd be the first time he'd met the other man, but they're soft and familiar, even if the shortness is still a little surprising. "I want you. You have no idea how much I want you. I can deal with anything that happens tomorrow if you take me tonight."

Derek stills, his hand halfway up the back of Spencer's shirt. "What do you mean, tomorrow?"

Spencer doesn't answer right away, instead stumbling backwards toward the bed. His arms are snug around Derek's middle and his fingers pluck at his clothing, as if impatient to get rid of it, as he pulls Derek along with him. He shakes his head and drops his forehead down on Derek's shoulder, his face feverish even through his shirt. "This is going to change things."

"It doesn't have to," Derek says immediately. He smooths his hand down Spencer's back, fascinated by the way his fingers bump over each vertebrate, then frowns at the change in the way Spencer feels in his arms. It's nothing so simple as tension-it's as if Spencer was there participating and now he's suddenly not. Like he's been left holding a living, breathing doll. Spencer presses his face into the crook of his neck and his fingers curl into his sides as he sucks in a shuddering breath and comes back to life. The entire incident only lasts for a moment, but the heat in Derek's belly cools a shade as unease creeps in to join it.

His lips part slightly and his breath stirs Spencer's hair, but before he can ask what's wrong, Spencer's stepping backwards and falling back onto the mattress and pulling him down on top of him. The air whooshes from their lungs at the impact and Spencer gasps a half laugh as he pushes at Derek, trying to get him to move so that he can breath again. He bucks up against Derek in an attempt to dislodge him and Derek's question flies out of his mind with his sharp exhale. Spencer writhes underneath him and he's so lost in the sensation of Spencer's slim body sliding against his that it isn't until he whimpers and shoves hard at his shoulder that Derek finally snaps back to himself enough to roll off of him.

His arms are still tight around Spencer's middle and he pulls him along as he moves so that he ends up half sprawled across Derek. Derek can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath, the soft sigh of his breathing mingling with the slight creak of mattress springs and the sounds of traffic filtering through Spencer's open bedroom. This is more comfortable than it has any right to be, Derek as he rests his cheek against Spencer's hair, not even bothered by the way his legs are still dangling off the edge of the bed and Spencer's weight is starting to make his arm go numb. His eyelids are beginning to get heavy and he can feel a yawn start to rise in his throat when Spencer props himself up on his elbows to look at Derek for a long second, then leans in to kiss him.

The kiss is soft, softer than Derek had been expecting, and sweet. Spencer's lips are closed against his, the pressure light. It's innocent and so much like his first kiss that he has a sudden flashback to a poorly decorated gym, a series of forgettable songs, and Suzy Shapiro dressed in a floral print dress. Despite the chasteness of the kiss, Derek can feel his blood start to simmer beneath his skin again and, when Spencer makes a small sound of contentment in the back of his throat, his sleepiness dissipates and heat rushes toward his groin. Derek sighs against Spencer's mouth and Spencer's bare leg slips up over Derek's. Derek fists a handful of Spencer's hair and pulls on it just hard enough to make Spencer gasp so that he can lick into his mouth until he's whimpering with wanting.

Spencer pushes himself up and moves so that he's straddling Derek's hips. Derek slides his hands up his thighs, pausing to trace over the gunshot scar on his leg. Spencer's breath hitches and his eyes flutter close when Derek's fingers linger there. "Derek," he murmurs, his hands flat against Derek's chest for support, and the warmth of his splayed fingers makes Derek inhale deeply just so that they're pressed closer against him. His eyes lock on Spencer's lips, which are so red and swollen from _he's_ done to them that Derek tightens his grip on the other man. "'License my roving hands, and let them go/Before, behind, between, above, below.'"

Derek loves watching the way Spencer's lips form words. The soft, round ohs, the tall, arch ahs, the wide, spread ees. He never would have pegged Spencer as the sort to spout poetry while in bed-statistics, yes, definitely, but not poetry-but listening to the words rolling so easily off his tongue leaves Derek flushed and aching. His hands slide up higher to settle on Spencer's hips underneath his skirt and Spencer's shudder is all the encouragement Derek needs to slip his hand around and lightly run the flat of his palm up and down the hard length of Spencer's cock. Spencer's fingers twist in Derek's shirt and he lets out a long, low moan that has Derek involuntarily thrusting up against his ass.

It only takes a few strokes before pre-come wets the fabric under his hand and Spencer's eagerly rocking into his touch. His head is tossed back, a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his eyes are narrow slits trained on Derek's face, and his wet, open mouth is moving to form inaudible words. Derek can't tear his eyes away from the way Spencer's face twists with pleasure and he strokes harder, faster because he wants so badly to see more. When he squeezes, Spencer groans and shudders and grabs his hand in a hard, unrelenting grasp. "No," he rasps. His cheeks are stained a deep rose and he's shaking hard with desire, but he pulls Derek's hand away. "Too much. Fuck, Derek, it's too much. I want you inside of me. Please."

Derek blinks, his cock twitching at Spencer's words and how rough is voice is with lust, then nods. His throat is tight, too tight to push words through it, and his mouth is so parched that it almost hurts to breath. He licks his lips, but it does nothing to dampen them. He absently kicks off his boots and undoes his pants while Spencer twists away from him. It only takes him seconds to shuck off his clothes, which means he's free to watch Spencer's elegant hands stripping away his damp underwear and tight shirt, but when he reaches for the zipper on his skirt Derek reaches out and captures one of his wrists. "Leave it on," he says lowly, a little surprised at how harsh his voice sounds in his own ears. That strange, shuttered look flashes across Spencer's face for an instant, then disappears again as he nods and climbs back on top of Derek. 

"Whatever you want," he says. His light brown gaze is so dark and heavy that Derek swears he can feel it on him like a physical caress. "Anything."

The word 'you' immediately rises in Derek's mind and he closes his eyes at the intensity of the sudden thought, but he forces it back down, refuses to dwell on it. Instead, he cups the back of Spencer's neck and pulls him down for a hard, desperate kiss. His skirt moves against Derek's skin and Derek isn't entirely certain which of them moans because Spencer's on top of him, skin on skin, and his hands are restless on Derek's shoulders and chest and Derek finally knows first hand how agile all that talking has left his tongue. Spencer wants him inside of him and right now there's nothing else that Derek wants more than to sink into his tight heat, so he breaks off the kiss, although Spencer's small whimper nearly ruins his resolve, and forces himself to ask, "Do you have lube?" He has a condom in his jeans pocket if absolutely necessary-and he hopes it isn't because he really doesn't want to spend the time it would take to find them right now-but he doesn't make a habit of carrying anything else around. Thankfully, Spencer shakes the glazed look from his eyes after a moment and rolls off of him to rummage through a box on the floor.

The bottle that Spencer hands him is half empty and the condom is from an open box. The part of him that's always thought of Spencer as virginal and naive wants to ask if this is his first time, but the way Spencer moves against him isn't the way an inexperienced person would move and the way he keeps his protection and lubrication so close at hand would make Derek's question sound borderline foolish. It bothers him to think about someone else touching Spencer, kissing him, stroking him, pushing him over the edge. And it bothers him that that bothers him. Spencer's looking at him strangely and Derek forces himself to smile and push those thoughts out of his mind.

Then he stops thinking altogether. His world narrows to the sharp chill of the lube on his skin, the feel of Spencer stretched and hot around his fingers, the taste Spencer's sweat on his tongue, and the sound of their gasps and moans that nearly drown out the sounds of the street below. When he finally thrusts into Spencer with agonizing slowness, Spencer's cry nearly undoes him. Spencer's still on top of him, his back arched into a long curve that Derek's fingers can't resist trailing up and down, riding him with long, deliberate gyrations. It's not a position that he normally likes-some primal part of him rebels against the idea of anyone looking down at him in such a helpless position, during such an intimate moment-but in the dim light with his fair skin flushed and his bright eyes glinting, Spencer looks beautiful and so completely unearthly that Derek couldn't find the breath to complain even if he wanted to. And, when Spencer looks down at him with an unsteady smile, he really doesn't want to.

Time melts and melds into something endless, measurable only by the beat of his heart in his ears and the jump of Spencer's pulse at the inside of his thigh against his side. He's barely coherent enough to notice that Spencer's loud gasps, which get louder with each thrust, are his name. Derek squeezes Spencer's hip so tightly that he knows he's branding him with bruises in the shape of his fingers, which is an oddly satisfying thought, and curls the fingers of his free hand around Spencer's cock, stroking him faster and faster until he comes, the hot liquid spilling down Derek's hand. The realization that it's his name that Spencer screams as he comes, that _he_ is what is making Spencer lose control so completely, is what finally pushes Derek over the edge. He bites down hard on his lip as he comes, tasting blood, and thrusts hard into Spencer through his orgasm.

The sounds of catcalls and loud cheers through the open window is what finally makes Derek force himself to refocus his eyes. Spencer's sprawled haphazardly across the mattress next to him with his limbs flung wide and a goofy, sated smile stretched across his face. Derek glances across the room at the window, half rising off the bed to close it, but Spencer snags his arm and pulls him back down. "Leave it," he says, his voice as loose as his limbs, as he shimmies out of his skirt and uses it to clean them both up before tossing it toward an overflowing hamper. "The air conditioner's broken. It's too hot with the window closed."

Derek shivers when Spencer strips the condom off of him, the feel of his fingertips against his overly sensitive cock almost too much to bear, but then Spencer pulls a sheet up over them both and snuggles up against his side, and it feels so good that Derek doesn't even mind the ribald jokes he can hear floating in with the cool night breeze.

* * *

Derek claws his way back to consciousness and tries to clamp down on the wild panic he can feel building into a frenzy. His body is still heavy and relaxed, although, even with his stomach churning and his speeding heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, he can feel himself start to respond a little when Spencer mutters in his sleep and curls closer against his side. He stares up at the ceiling, memorizing every crack and water stain, as he runs through a series of breathing exercises that do absolutely nothing to calm the way every nerve ending in his body is screaming at him to get up, get dressed, get out. The sheets are pushed down to the end of bed where his feet keep getting tangled in them and he kicks at them feebly in an attempt to get free.

His movement must disturb Spencer or maybe just influence his dream, because he mumbles something unintelligible again and his fingers spasm and dig sharply into Derek's side for a tense second before relaxing to rest flat against his skin. Derek stares at him for several minutes while he sleeps, taking in the movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids, the way his lips purse and his brow furrows, the soft clicking of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if he can't stay its desire to form words even in sleep. When Derek lifts the arm that's draped across his middle, Spencer's fingers twitch again, but it's heavy, dead weight in his hand. He eases sideways toward the edge of the bed, gently tucking Spencer's arm against his body. Spencer frowns in his sleep and shifts into the warm spot where Derek had been. He inhales long and slow, then curls into himself with a small sigh.

The streetlight outside the bedroom window is weak and flickery, but there's enough light for Derek to pick out his clothes from among the piles of books and papers that clutter the floor. His foot bumps against a particularly high stack and he freezes, his breath caught in his throat as he watches it sway precariously. After a too long moment, it stills and Derek sidesteps his way around it, his arms loaded with his things. In the hallway, he pauses to struggle into his jeans and shirt. They feel confining, far too tight, and he plucks at his neckline, tugging at it until the fabric stretches and gives him space to breathe. After a moment's hesitation, he shoves his socks into his pocket and slips into his boots.

This isn't going to change anything, he silently repeats to himself like a mantra. Away from the breeze that had been blowing in Spencer's window, the living room and entrance way feel stifling, almost suffocating. He's losing his fight against his panic and it swells, filling his throat with bile. This isn't going to change anything. This isn't going to change _anything_. His shoelaces flap loosely around his feet, nearly tripping him up, but he braces himself against the wall before he can fall. He stays that way for several minutes, his arm and forehead pressed hard against the cool wall until his breathing comes easier and his fist slowly unclenches.

It isn't until he's outside Spencer's apartment and the door's closed behind him with a resounding click of the lock sliding into place that he remembers that Spencer drove. Derek half turns toward the door, his arm already raising as if to knock, then he shakes himself and instead pulls out his cell phone and taps in the number for a cab.

**Author's Note:**

> The poems Spencer quotes are Habitation by Margaret Atwood, which is one of my all time favorite poems about marriage by one of my all time favorite writers, and Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed by John Donne.


End file.
